


Doubles

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:50:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>robo!Sam did some damage; luckily, Dean's a fixer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doubles

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/profile)[ **salt_burn_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/)  , prompt from [](http://dephigravity.livejournal.com/profile)[ **dephigravity**](http://dephigravity.livejournal.com/)  , "double your pleasure." I may have gone kind of, uh, weirdly literal on the prompt. Has that "I wish I could edit the hell out of this but that would be cheating," [](http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/profile)[ **salt_burn_porn**](http://community.livejournal.com/salt_burn_porn/)  vibe going. 

  
“We’re not going to get there before dark. Post office will be closed.” Their last credit card is maxed out, and between them they have all of about twenty dollars cash. Their next credit card is waiting for them in Baton Rouge, but it looks like it will be waiting till tomorrow morning.

“We could hit some bars, play some pool, get enough for the night,” says Dean, looking sideways at Sam, where he’s slumped bonelessly in shotgun, legs wide, eyes hidden behind shades.

“Let’s not. Let’s just stop. Sleep in the car. God knows we’ve done it before,” says Sam, and maybe he’s been thinking what Dean’s been thinking. The AC in the Impala has never had the energy to combat summer in the Deep South. Sams’s throat gleams with sweat, a faint shimmer where his pulse beats, his hair is stuck to the side of his face, and his t-shirt is dark around the neckline and under the arms. Dean can smell him, sharper and more familiar than the pervasive distillation of swamp and greenery and pollution, a pulse in the background of his mind like the Impala’s engine.

They stop at a Quik-E-Mart and get beer and chips and thin, pallid sandwiches. Dean pulls off at an exit that looks like it goes nowhere. It ends in a graveyard. “Can’t get away from fucking tombstones,” Dean mutters. Still, it’s quiet. Nothing but a bunch of dead people and a little, locked church that looks like no one prays in it any more, live oaks and coarse, lush grass. The sun is setting in a pink ball, the air heavy and sodden with heat.

They sit on a flat table-like tomb to eat, Sam’s thigh brushing Dean’s. Dean finishes his sandwich in three bites and lingers over cold beer and chips, the corner of his eye on the way Sam’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows and how the last of the light glints on the short hairs of his forearms. When Dean takes his next chug of beer he brushes his hand against Sam’s arm, accidentally on purpose, and watches the small hairs stand to attention. Sam looks at him, mouth pinched in a faint frown.

“Hey,” says Dean. When Sam doesn’t react, he nudges their shoulders together, then reaches up to brush his fingers over the damp, warm nape of Sam’s neck under his hair. He’s done this a few times since they settled back into some of their old rhythms, extended an invitation. Sam’s never taken him up on it. This time, though, he half turns, awkwardly, to look into Dean’s face. Then his thumb swipes over the corner of Dean’s mouth, smearing grease and salt across his lips. Dean touches the tip of his tongue to it, and Sam’s eyes start to go dark. “Dean,” he says, and he leans in and licks at the salt on Dean’s mouth, until Dean parts his lips and pulls Sam’s head towards him and makes it a proper kiss. Sam makes a small sound and surges forward, bearing Dean back against the tomb, a hand on Dean’s shoulder, pressing him down, another stroking, incongruously gentle, over the spikes of hair on the side of Dean’s head while they kiss. There are cicadas in the trees, a prolonged buzzing pulse and fade that goes with the thundering of blood in Dean’s ears. He moves his lips eagerly against Sam’s, licking into his mouth, tries to tug him into place so that his hardening dick has something to press up against.

But Sam shifts away with a choked exclamation and breaks off, brackets Dean’s face between his hands. The intensity in his expression isn’t lust. “Did we do this?” he asks harshly, “Before, when . . .” It takes a moment for Dean to gather his thoughts, figure out what Sam is on about.

“When you were soulless,” he says, a bit breathless. Apparently Dean can’t even get laid without Sam trying to flagellate himself into a seizure. “No, Sam, I have not been messing around with your douchey robotwin. And don’t scratch the fucking wall, OK?”

Sam leans closer, so that Dean can feel the shape of his words in the breath brushing over his lips.

“Did I try anything? Go after you?” he says, like Dean hadn’t spoken.

“Christ, Sammy,” says Dean, “Are you jealous, or is this just more of your damn sackcloth and ashes routine? _He_ made the occasional pass, OK? He asked, I said not a good idea, he went out and banged some waitress or something. It wasn’t a big deal. Nothing happened.”

Sam laughs, an ugly humorless sound. “You sure, Dean?” he says, “You sure you’d tell me if it had?” and suddenly he nips at Dean’s neck so hard that Dean yelps.

“You sure I never did this?” he asks, teeth scraping Dean’s jaw. “This?” his knee pushes Dean’s legs apart, and then his full weight is pressing Dean down into the tombstone, bruising grip on his arm. “This?” Sam asks again, and his mouth comes down hard on Dean’s, biting at his lips, pushing his tongue past Dean’s teeth. Sam’s half growling, half-sobbing. His body is lined up just right now against Dean’s, rocking down. Sam’s not hard. Dean is.

“Sam,” Dean says, trying to get the situation back under control. His sexy evening is certainly turning out to be a fucking disaster.

Sam is panting, his eyes demon-dark. “It wasn’t _him_ , Dean,” he says, “For the last time, it wasn’t _him_ , it was me. Anything he did, it was me. I could have done stuff to you and I don’t even know it, and I can’t trust you to tell me, I can’t trust you, not on this.”

“Sam,” says Dean again, “Calm down, okay? _Nothing happened_. I’m not offering you soulless rape forgiveness sex here, or whatever sick thing you’re thinking.”

Sam says, “Shit, Fuck,” and wrenches himself abruptly off Dean, going to his knees beside the tombstone, then getting up and stumbling into the oleander bushes at the edge of the cemetery. Dean can hear him retching. He’s gone a long few minutes. Dean sits up and straightens his clothes, willing his hard-on to subside and getting his breathing under control. Sam finally comes dragging back, shoulders slumped.

“You Okay?” says Dean neutrally. Sam sits down heavily beside him. “Yeah,” he says, then: “Sorry. I’m sorry. Fuck. Are _you_ OK? Let’s just go to bed, OK. Can we just go to bed?”

Dean doesn’t point out that it can’t be later than ten, or that going to bed in this instance means cramping themselves uncomfortably on the bench seats of the Impala. “Sure,” he says. But he lies awake for a long time, listening to the whine of mosquitoes and Sam shifting about uneasily in the backseat.

  
Dean wakes up early the next day, Sam still dead to the world. He goes off into the trees, takes a piss, then wanders a little, contemplates a scummy bayou and a bored-looking egret. Sam is leaning against the car when he gets back, bare-chested in worn-thin sweatpants, sipping at a bottle of water. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, his hair mussed and greasy, and he’s already sweating in the humid morning air. There are shadows under his eyes. Dean stops in front of him and he says “Hey,” a little blearily. His breath washes sourly over Dean’s face.

“Robo-you brushed his teeth,” says Dean, “and washed his hair. His hair looked kind of good, you know, for you.” He can imagine the faint, waxy-sharp smell Sam’s hair would have right now if he buried his face in it, along with the lingering scent of yesterday morning’s cheap motel shampoo.

“Maybe robo-me didn’t have stupid ideas like sleeping in the fucking car,” says Sam, and he sounds like himself again. “Sorry about last night,” he adds awkwardly.

“About that,” says Dean, and Sam looks at him warily. Dean reaches out, slow and careful, and strokes the corner of Sam’s jaw, the hair just behind his ear, drops his hand to Sam’s shoulder. “I meant it,” he says, “T1000 Sam did some damage, sure, and it eats you, not knowing. I get that, I do. It sucks. But you gotta trust me here, Sam. He did not damage this. He doesn’t get to damage this.”

Sam looks at him for a long moment, then nods slowly. He turns and ducks his head, brushes his lips deliberately across the back of Deans hand.

It’s him kissing Sam, then, Sam sweaty and unshowered and uncertain, his mouth sour, kissing him back. Dean hums low in his throat, begins to lick his way down Sam’s neck towards his collarbone, and Sam relaxes into it, tilting his head back, eyes slitting shut, face reddening in the growing sunlight. Dean bites at the notch of his collarbone, leaving a perfect half moon of purple marks, and then sucks and mouths over the spot again and again, breathing against the damp skin, till Sam moans, hips pushing against Dean, cock thickening under the soft sweats.

Part of Dean still wants the rest of what he was shooting for last night, before things went south, wants Sam pressing him against the car with his solid bulk, Sam’s hands sure on his face, angling him into their kisses, Sam laughing and bending him over and fucking him sweet and hard. But that’s not what they have right now. Sam’s still too freaked by his body banging its way across the continent while his soul was AWOL, by whatever shit he imagines he might have done to Dean. Dean can let Sam trust him now, not force him to trust himself. He thrusts against Sam and Sam’s arms come around him awkwardly, and Sam drops his head on his shoulder, mouthing at him through his t-shirt. Dean can smell his hair now, the faint sharp waxiness he’d been imagining earlier.

He licks at Sam’s ear. “Let me,” he says, not sure quite what he means, but Sam makes an assenting _unnhh_ sound into his shoulder. “Let me,” Dean says again, and gropes under Sam’s waistband, dropping low to take his balls in his palm and roll them a bit, then moving up to close around his dick. Sam thrusts into his hand, already slick and damp at the tip, and Dean pulls down the sweatpants and begins to work him, smearing precome down the hot, delicate skin of his shaft, setting up a rhythm, lips moving in Sam’s hair while Sam’s teeth worry at his shoulder as he bucks and moans. Sam clutches him tighter when he comes, spilling over Dean’s hand, and Dean goes on pulling gently, slippery and easy now, till Sam shudders and lifts his head from Dean’s shoulder. “You want . . .?” he begins to say, but Dean shakes his head, holds Sam still with an arm across his shoulders while he fumbles at his jeans with his other hand. When he’s gotten them down, dick springing free and arching up towards his belly, he tangles a hand in the hair at the back of Sam’s head and pulls him down against his shoulder again while he slips his dick between Sam’s thighs, grabbing Sam’s ass to pull him in as he begins to thrust. Sam sets up a rocking motion and a roll of his hips, helping him along, and he’s chanting “Sam, fuck, Sam,” grabbing at Sam’s shoulders to stay upright while his balls draw up and his hips stutter and the tight flash of orgasm uncoils and rips through him and out in a white splash of jizz down the back of Sam’s thighs. Sam lifts his head and kisses him through it, firm and steady, wraps a hand round the back of his head and rubs his thumb against the hollow at the base of his skull. Dean breaks their kiss by a hair’s breadth and they stand leaning together, breathing warmly against each other’s mouths.

“Morning breath,” says Dean finally, “Gross, man.” He reaches for Sam’s water bottle, and they do a haphazard clean-up, dig fresh clothes out of the trunk. Dean unearths a pack of mint gum from the glove compartment. He tosses it at Sam. “Here,” he says, “Mister Bogbreath. Double your pleasure, double your fun.”

Sam looks at the genuine Doublemint.

“Dean, this is your picking up twins gum. From, like, four years ago. You think that whole incident didn’t scar me enough?”

Dean barely remembers that, back before either hell, but he grins anyway.

“How do you know what twins I’ve been picking up lately? Me and Mary-Kate and Ashley, dude.” Sam shakes his head and climbs into the passenger seat. At least it's not his own evil robotwin now, Dean hopes, riding shotgun in Sam’s head. 


End file.
